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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26370520">Ain't No Grave</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs'>wajjs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Mantisverse, Not Beta Read, Praying Mantis mating habits, Rough Sex, Unconventional Uses of Sewing</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:47:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,004</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26370520</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gotham might as well be a Mantis-city with how it devours the soul and heart of anyone who dares love Her too much. Well, those are the least among the numbers of poor unfortunate fuckers that have been chewed up crunch by crunch, swallowed, digested and expelled by ye ol’ Gotham. Truth is, this city is insatiable: always running on the famished side, mouth wide open, catching both each and every fly <em>and</em> potential saviour.</p>
<p>  It’s perfectly ok for the Batman, though. It works just fine with all he’s done, does and will continue doing.</p>
<p>  It does marvels for what he, hm.</p>
<p>  Well. There <em>is</em> a famous saying about forests and trees and seeing. It applies ever so well.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bruce Wayne/Slade Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>40</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ain't No Grave</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morimaitar/gifts">Morimaitar</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>My beloved Mori came up with this absolutely cursed au and I said I wasn't gonna like it yet HERE I AM, WRITING THIS... so far outside my comfort zone, we might as well be in outerspace.</p>
<p>If you are not familiar with the praying mantis mating habits, I highly suggest you look them up before venturing any further.</p>
<p>Having said that, enjoy :-D</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <b>Ain’t No Grave</b>
</p>
<p>
  <em> can hold my body down </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  In Sex Ed classes, as lame, few and far in between as they happen to be, they always make a bloody point to warn you: count your losses when seeking strangers, guard your head when you fall in unknown beds. <em> The scare of the Mantis, </em> that’s what they call it. So big of a scare that any and everyone of them have been chased to the point of near extinction. A mark of the old times, those ones filled with brutal actions, with cruelty and despicable danger and— a mark of brutality that cannot, should not, <em> will not, </em> follow the civil societies that are always in constant evolution.</p>
<p>  Of course, as it stands true with anything that’s widely spread by big conglomerates of information management, not everything pertaining to the <em> Mantis Scare </em> is, well, exact. Accurate. True to facts. Whatever else it might be called. Most of it is still, to this day, widely exaggerated, blown out of sense or reason, and then the big chunks of the rest are awful manipulations of the truths.</p>
<p>  The current consequence of it is that anyone who is a <em> Mantis</em>, they are so in secret. So the <em> Scare </em> goes on and on and on. Always growing stronger.</p>
<p>  The probability of encountering that type is so low it’s closer to zero than zero itself. Some think they are truly becoming extinct via… unhealthy oral fixations. Others have their heads more closely attached to reality and consider a very possible reason the following thing: after so much chasing, persecution and international resentment, the Mantis, as a group, have developed an uncanny mastery at disguising themselves as part of the Norm. Sure, every now and then there are, there are, huh, <em> news </em> of <em> certain kinds </em> that put the whole world in a frenzy, an outcry, and entire neighbourhoods are put under scrutiny to try and catch them, force them out and away.</p>
<p>  It’s hilarious how these efforts fail more and more nowadays.</p>
<p>  But of course they do! There are, after all, some of <em> them </em> bathed in riches and power.</p>
<p>  Who would want <em> those </em> gone, really? When they contribute so much to the, ha ha ha ha ha ha ha, <em> economy</em>.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  Gotham might as well be a Mantis-city with how it devours the soul and heart of anyone who dares love Her too much. Well, those are the least among the numbers of poor unfortunate fuckers that have been chewed up crunch by crunch, swallowed, digested and expelled by ye ol’ Gotham. Truth is, this city is insatiable: always running on the famished side, mouth wide open, catching both each and every fly <em> and </em> potential saviour.</p>
<p>  It’s perfectly ok for the Batman, though. It works just fine with all he’s done, does and will continue doing.</p>
<p>  It does marvels for what he, hm.</p>
<p>  Well. There <em> is </em> a famous saying about forests and trees and seeing. It applies ever so well.</p>
<p>  Standing on an obscured rooftop, sniper rifle easily disassembling in his hands, the feared Deathstroke finishes a contract. In Gotham, assassinations are almost nearly as common as street robberies. The beasts in blue are going to take a while before making it to the scene, that is, if anyone even bothers to call it in. The man went down silent as a whisper. And who is going to care too much about a cracked window in a place such as this one?</p>
<p>  He packs up without haste and without too much ease. Quick, precise movements, practiced steps in a routine, in less than half a minute he’s up and running, leaping right off the ledge to land on the next rooftop. A feral cat curled up next to a semi-dilapidated vent only deems his presence worthy of a barely opened yellow eye. The furry thing is used to the roaming costumed ghouls that take over the night. Slade keeps moving, destination fixated in his mind.</p>
<p>  Except that he lands left instead of right and moves across an empty street instead of taking the turn to the avenue. And he’s going deeper into the teeth of Gotham, stuck somewhere in between the canines and soon to be moving on to the molars; it’s always like that, the canines to snag on the flesh, to tear into it first, tear and tug till it comes apart—the molars to crush and flatten, to fully dismantle, disintegrate, process with saliva right before the swallowing.</p>
<p>  His thinking mind is telling him to quit it, to beat it, to run for it, <em> away, </em> because this call is much too sweet, much too promising. </p>
<p>  A lure. One he has no choice but to fall for.</p>
<p>  No choice when he stands in front of the striking figure of a man just like him, clad in leather and kevlar, black mixing with the dirty tones of the polluted night sky. The shine of white lenses framing the face into a tabula rasa devoid of expressions.</p>
<p>  It dawns on Deathstroke, just then.</p>
<p>  He’s found one of his species.</p>
<p>  He’s been found, too.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  The fall upon the bed, hidden away in a dark crevice of the cave, is hard and unforgiving. All the way here, they have been shedding layers like they imprinted bruises upon each other, a flurry of motion, a rain of movement that cannot be stopped by neither man nor godly action. The drag of teeth scraping down his neck, digging into the skin and testing its elasticity, its healing and thinness, is the first thing that elicits an honest noise that comes tumbling through Slade’s lips. In the count of stalactites and every fucked up reason that’s making him stay, Slade also wonders what are the odds of this encounter atop the chances of this ending on the wrong side of wet and brutal.</p>
<p>  And then Batman—no, <em> Bruce, </em> is breaking through his suit and Slade’s just about ready and eager for whatever might come from this ill-advised tumble.</p>
<p>  “Eager, aren’t you?” Slade laughs a mean and irreverent sound, smile turning feral when he does his part in the breaking, utility belt across tapered hips coming apart under absolute brute force, falling at the feet of the man with a torn cowl on.</p>
<p>  That, too, comes off.</p>
<p>  “Shut up,” Bruce’s voice is thick and denser than blood when it’s growing cold on the floor, like a halo around a head with a single entrance hole between the eyebrows.</p>
<p>  “Got no reason to,” there’s biting, canines, sharp and decisive, breaching skin, and Bruce stills for just a second. More than long enough for Slade to get his hands all over that heated skin, blunt fingernails leaving angry red welts on the unprotected skin. “Wise of you, Bats, to disguise yourself as a <em> predator. </em> You do a lot of all kinds of hunting.”</p>
<p>  His head hits the pillows and that just makes him laugh. The very electricity crackling in the spaces between their bodies is outstandingly delicious. </p>
<p>  “You love it, don’t you,” he goes on anyways, because when has he ever stopped for anyone, “you get to do your <em> devouring, </em> satiate that hunger, fill your mouth with all of that, but it doesn’t quite do the job, doesn’t it? And you can’t <em> risk </em> it.”</p>
<p>  Bruce punches him again. Hits him hard enough to break his nose, to make blood come trickling into his beard and moustache, staining the white hairs a shocking red. A good taste of what’s to come.</p>
<p>  “Shut,” the sound is forced out just like Bruce’s own fingers are harsh and impatient with his own hole, why, they are hardly coated with barely enough lube, “the fuck up.”</p>
<p>  “But you are taking a risk now, Bats,” Slade says and spits into his hand, saliva coming onto the skin mixed with crimson—his nose has already healed—spreads it over his fingers, pushes them inside Bruce as well. The fluttering of those eyelids, the tense line of that jaw. It’s all truly a beauty. “Hope it pays well.”</p>
<p>  </p>
<p>  Sweaty, needy and <em> loud, </em> Bruce rides Slade’s cock like this is the very last thing he’ll do in this wretched life. Every raspy, throaty breath echoes through the cave like a mark of damnation, the sound of skin hitting skin, the slippery line of Bruce’s hips, all of that makes up the true image of wild abandon. It’s an experience that’s better felt with all active senses. Slade’s lucky to be in the very first row.</p>
<p>  He’s getting close, he knows. Slade also knows Bruce knows he knows. There are certain things they can’t hide from each other when they are connected via dick in anus.</p>
<p>  Not a single kiss precedes the force of Bruce’s hands attaching themselves to the sides of Slade’s neck. Their need has left them past the point of language, straight into the territory of instincts and utter necessities. With a single eyed determination, Slade smiles, all teeth and promising. Daring. Taunting.</p>
<p>  The flash of weak indecision flashes across Bruce’s eyes for a second.</p>
<p>  His hands keep pressing down on Slade’s neck. Pressing down hard, harder, harder, harder. The muscles in his arms flex with the effort, the veins can be perfectly traced. Bruce’s nails dig into the skin, break through it, and Slade’s cock is so hard, so incredibly hard inside him, his hips can’t stop moving, they can’t, they are both seeking that very final moment, that shared bliss, they are getting desperate for it, toeing the edge of the cliff and drooling over the drop and</p>
<p>  Bruce shouts as it wrecks him, an orgasm so strong his vision whites out for minutes, but he’s not unconscious when he succumbs to the base instincts. No, he’s not unconscious and Slade isn’t either when he lets it happen, when the strength of Bruce’s grip turns to twisting deadliness and in his hands the bones become brittle, broken. Slade’s cock is still hard, will <em> remain </em> hard inside him, filling him with his release to the point of obscenity. It keeps going and going and going, muscles and limbs spasming underneath him, and Bruce can’t help it, he truly can’t. He brings his mouth down on the throat, tears into it with both teeth and hands, till— </p>
<p>  The crunching sound is deafening, drowning out Bruce’s own grunts, the melody of skin hitting skin, of blood spurting and raining down and all over him.</p>
<p>  Slade’s head is perfectly cradled in his hands when he orgasms again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  Enhanced healing comes in handy when you wake up to discover part of yourself still inside a furnace of a body, when nerve endings start coming together with lightning fast velocity and you feel each kiss that’s left after the needle and the thread connect your head back to the rest of… you. Some finer things take longer, so his smile stays at a poor attempt, but it transmits the message nonetheless.</p>
<p>  Blinking away the blinding lights of the cave, Slade next realizes they are still in the same bed, except now filled with white release, gore and blood. Just like a normal Tuesday. Bruce has yet to move away from his lap. From his hair, his lashes and lips, all the way to the dips and valleys of his abdomen, he’s covered in Wilson red. It does something to Slade’s mangled morals.</p>
<p>  If they can be called morals.</p>
<p>  The needle comes through his skin and away, tugs on the thick thread that will keep everything in place till it’s no longer needed. It hurts like a motherfucker. Slade can’t help but curl his lips.</p>
<p>  “I know,” Bruce says, softly, so softly, and he leans in to press another kiss where the skin is beginning to heal, soon to be followed by the muscle. It’s almost an apology. “It’ll scar.”</p>
<p>  <em> Good, </em> Slade grins.</p>
<p>  Let this be a reminder. Eternal proof neither of them will ever be able to shake away.</p>
<p>  His vocal chords have yet to regenerate. He squeezes Bruce’s hips, hopes the message conveys.</p>
<p>  <em> I’ll give you one of my own, too. </em></p>
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